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Random Observations 




Random Observations 

of 

An Idle Mind 

WHILE CONTEMPLATING 
AN OPEN FIRE 



Edward Selden Spaulding 



This 

Roblar Edition 

is limited to 

100 signed and numbered copies 

of which this is 



No.nj... 







THB SCHAUER PRINTING STUDIO. INC., SANTA BARBARA 



V:.. 



^^-z\]S^2- 










To my son 

Selden Spaulding 

with affection 



The Oak on Pigeon Hill 

The oak that for a hundred winters stood 

On Pigeon Hill and from the wild wind- 
race, 

The rain, the sunshine, gathered strength 
and grace 

To rise the titan of the neighborhood 

Has been reduced at last to corded wood 
And burns within the big, stone fireplace. 
I feel its genial warmth upon my face 
Like summer sunshine, comforting and 
good. 

Outdoors, the Winter's heavy, driven rain 
Falls slashing downward through the 

stormwracked trees 
And knuckles angrily on roof and pane. 

A wild, wild night without! Within at ease 
I stretch my sleepy length and dream 

again 
Of happy hours spent at the great oak's 

knees. 



The First Heavy Rain 

After the months of desiccating heat, 
When all creation cried aloud in vain 
For some relief, the sound of the first rain 
On field and hill, the heavy, steady beat 

Of the big drops on roof and wall, is sweet, 
More sweet by far than the inspiring strain 
That Orpheus sang on Thessally's fair 

plain 
To launch full-manned the Argonauts' vast 
fleet. 

Deep in their cells the mariposas feel 
The waking pulse, the seeping moistures 

bring 
Life to the withered grasses. Soon will steal 

From out the ground the tiny blades to sing 
Their tiny hymns of thanks, while small 

bells peal 
To the new world the wond'rous joys of 

Spring. 



Fall Steadily, Welcome Rain! 

Fall steadily, oh welcome Rain, and beat 
Your sharp tattoo on every upturned face. 
Fill pore and crack and crevice, every 

space 
Within the Earth's great cisterns with your 

sweet. 

Reviving fluid, till the springs, replete. 
Well up abundantly, the streamlets race 
Down the green mountainside at tumbling 

pace. 
And the long drought is brok'n in wild 

defeat. 

Fall steadily, oh Rain, and drop by drop 
Wash clean each parched and dusty tree 

and bush. 
Quench the fierce thirst in every throat, 

nor stop 

Your joyous ministrations till the thrush 
Sings in his bower, the finch from the 

treetop. 
And unseen larks from meadows green and 

lush. 



Good Oak Firewood 

Strength gathered from the tempest's 

furious might, 
Warmth from the frost, and comfort from 

the wind. 
And stored, God's providence to human 

kind 
Through all the centuries of doubt and 

fright 

When in the little hemispheres of light 
Close to the flames Man crouched, and all 

behind 
Him was a region vast and ill defined 
Where prowled the creatures of the horrid 

Night. 

Security and home since time began 
For us the blazing hearth has ever been. 
I stare into the flames and try to span 

The gulf that stretches, phantom filled, 

between 
That which I know because I am a man 
And what I feel, the seen and the unseen. 



Mission Pine Mountain 

These winter months, the hills lie deep 

in snow, 
Each slope and buttress, ridge, and lifting 

crest, 
There once in milder days we went in 

quest 
Of the elusive buck, whose antlered brow 

Was there supreme, magnificent; and now 
Fierce winds, like arctic wolves that know 

no rest. 
Rush through the forest isles, that we 

possessed. 
To sweep them clean of creatures whom 

we know. 

Lost is our hunter's camp beneath the 

drift 
And buried deep the well remembered 

trail 
Down to the spring where primroses did 

lift 

Their lips to ours, and families of quail 
Were shadow patterns that did change and 

shift 
As they loafed in to drink in that still vale. 



Fire Dreams 

What memories within the flames are 

scrolled! 
How skillfully they lead my thoughts 

away 
To wander through the scenes of yesterday 
With boyhood friends in pleasures 

manifold. 

Along its path this spinning world hath 

rolled 
As much I loved has fallen to decay; 
Yet in the ruddy flames these hours of play 
And pleasure past seem as they were of old. 

Held in a light, hypnotic dream, I see 
Again the mighty walls of Zion build 
And many a sheer, unspoiled Yosemite 

With trees and sunshine and gay 

wildflowers filled. 
And there is many a face to welcome me 
Whose valiant heart long years ago was 

stilled. 



In Memory of George Roper 

Ah, George, upon what distant, pleasant 

shore 
Do you now walk beneath the broad-leaved 

trees, 
Hearing the warblers sing their melodies, 
From the green sprays, oft stopping to 

explore 

The likely tangles? Th'all devouring war 
Is over now, the doubtful victories 
Are won, the victors home, and overseas 
Lie those who fought and will return no 
more. 

When this, my fire, burns out, this warm 

glow fades 
To ashes, what remains for me and you 
And those bright days upon the Palisades 

When hearts always were gay and skies 

were blue. 
When small adventures lurked in all the 

glades. 
And all we touched and saw was young and 

new? 



There Is No Turning Back 

Much though we wish it, we may not 

return 
To live again days vanished years ago 
With those gay, boyhood friends we used 

to know 
And hold in such affectionate concern. 

We go to the loved spot only to learn 
Afresh that friends have passed, the 

hearth's warm glow 
Has dimmed and died, the stones are cold 

as snow. 
The fire will not rekindle, will not burn. 

Although the present moments to us seem 
So commonplace, so filled with strain and 

stress. 
It may be in the future we shall dream 

Of them also with warmth and tenderness. 
In retrospect, they may hold the supreme 
Benevolence our lives will e'er express. 



On Pigeon Hill 

Each spring on oak-grown Pigeon Hill 

the sun 
Beats warmly down, the big, gray pigeons 

fly 
At meteor speed, like arrows, through the 

sky; 
While in the stands of dodecatheon 

And buttercup the chipmunks frisk and run 
Like little children, venturesome yet shy. 
They keep sharp watch and flick their tails 

and cry 
At everything that moves on the Rincon. 

But now in winter when the rough storms 

sweep 
In from the sea, how do these wildlings 

fare? 
How coldly must the merry fellows sleep 

Each in his den! There are no fires there 
To comfort them until the warm days 

creep 
Up from the South and Spring is 

everywhere. 



The Past Is Dead 

The past, the frightful past, seems almost 

dead. 
No longer do the superstitious fears 
And eerie forms from the primordial years 
Creep through the darkness to surround 

my bed. 

Around me now the night is tenented 
With mortal shapes akin to mine. One 

hears 
And smiles when wild coyotes sing of tears 
And love to the round moon high overhead. 

How pleasantly, abroad at stars' first peep, 
I walk along the old, familiar trail 
That leads through trees where little 
screechowls keep 

Their great-eyed watch down to the grassy 

swail 
Where Evening Primroses in clusters deep 
Follow the moon with fragile faces pale. 



The Evening Primrose 

In the soft light, while other flowers sleep 
In deep repose upon the mountainside, 
The Evening Primrose spreads its petals 

wide 
To the full moon. There by the little seep 

Of water do the yellow blossoms keep 
Their nightly trysts with all the shy, 

wide-eyed, 
Crepescular fraternity that hide 
Through the hot noon within the thickets 

deep. 

Bloom on, fair spirits of the soft half-light. 
And show your beauty only to the eyes 
Of those who love, like you, the moonlit 
night; 

Who know the wonder of the starry skies, 
The sadness of the Day's reluctant flight, 
The spreading glory of each new sunrise. 



The Pleasant Night 

So many of God's creatures shun the bright 

Noon hours and choose instead the darkness 
clear 

For their pursuits and pleasures! Timid 
deer 

Come out to browse in the soft quarter- 
light, 

Birds set the moonrise as a time for flight, 
While on the surface of the ocean queer, 
Unsightly fish from darkest depths appear 
And leap with all their strength into the 
night. 

And Man, no less than fish and bird, enjoys 
The quiet darkness as he makes his bed 
Beneath the stars, far from the madd'ning 
noise 

Of hard-paved, city streets. There was he 

bred. 
The lively talents that he now employs 
Were formed there, and there were 

inherited. 



Fear of the Dark 

Instinctively all children fear the Dark, 
Not for itself, for what it may contain 
Of eerie forms that they can not explain 
Because they have not seen or touched 
them. "Hark! 

"What was it?" Centuries of terror stark 
When almost helpless Man has crouched 

or lain 
Close by his fire, or has been chased amain, 
Have left their ineradicable mark. 

But as the children grow to manhood, less 
And less they feel of instinct, more and 

more 
They turn to reason for their happiness. 

The ancient fear, the ancient, thoughtless 

lore. 
Fade steadily till only dreams impress 
The load of terror that the Race once bore. 



The California Woodpecker 

Eight months ago, as reckoned by the 

moon, 
Within the great oak's shade at rest I lay 
And watched the hard-billed woodpeckers 

at play 
Above me all the lazy afternoon. 

Moved by the welling joys of early June, 
They went from tree to tree, from spray to 

spray. 
In undulating flight, so free, so gay. 
They seemed each one a flickering festoon. 

Gay birds, so carefree yet so provident. 
How many weary wingbeats did you roam 
After that day our heartless axes sent 

You forth to find another sheltering dome 
Within whose center you could feel content 
To chisel out a second fortress home? 



A Flag on Iwo 

Far out in the Pacific, on a height 
Of sulphurous Iwo, fighters battlescarred 
Have raised the flag, thrusting the staff 

end hard 
Down in the smoking scoria while the 

fight 

Still swirled and eddied round them, left 

and right. 
There on that barren cone, full striped 

and starred. 
The Banner took the breeze, and oceanward 
Our sailors saw and cheered its colors 

bright. 

How many other men in other lands 
Have lifted high that flag, have rallied 

there ! 
What desperate, what sometimes hopeless, 

stands 

Have there been made; for men will ever 

dare 
To rally when a leader in his hands 
Seizes the Flag and lifts it high in air! 



The Second World War 

Into the maelstrom of this awful war 
We send our sons to fight like savage dogs : 
In the South Seas, in fever-ridden bogs 
And swamps, on deserts waterless ; high o'er 

White, wave-washed atoll, and on coral 

shore 
Rich only in its mass of tortured logs 
And shattered ships; in northern fogs. 
On rotten muskeg and wild, worthless tor. 

Beget, ye fathers and ye mothers, sons 
In never ending numbers to supply 
Brave, human targets for the bombs and 
guns; 

For War is in the saddle and doth cry 
Us ever onward. Coward he who shuns 
The battle front and has no wish to die! 



The Fair Deal 

In every issue of the daily news 

Comes sordid tales of politics and graft, 

Malfeasance in high office. Men have 

laughed 
At the old faiths and standards. Gangs 

and Crews 

Have formed and have by strategym and 

ruse 
And shakedown reaped the harvest of their 

craft. 
Have dealt in millions while their victims 

chaffed 
At the injustice but dared not refuse. 

Preferment now is for those talented 
In party politics. The wise and just, 
Whom Washington respected, the well bred 

Of Adams presidency, these are thrust 
From public place; yet Grover Cleveland 

said: 
''A public office is a public trust." 



This Senseless War 

Woe unto him who calls young men to die 
Far from their homes upon some unknown 

strand 
In an adventure that fs badly planned, 
An enterprise that none can justify, 

That has no just conclusion. Bodies lie 
In bundles pitiful on the wet sand 
And roll this way and that at the command 
Of the salt waves and the wild seabird's 
cry. 

Woe to the man who summons such a host 
To slaughter. Woe to this great nation. 

When 
At war's end the incalculable cost 

In time and treasure and in shattered men 
Is totalled up, and all that we have lost 
Confronts us, what shall we in truth say 
then? 



So Many Voices 

Far, far away, among Korean hills, 
Our men are shot by hundreds every day. 
This battleground is much too far away 
For us to think oft of it though it kills 

And maims our sons. Our own domestic 

ills 
Fill all our minds. While politicians say 
That all is well, we in our homes inveigh 
Against corruption and the huge tax bills. 

So many selfish parties, faiths, and creeds! 
So many priests whose pratings never 

cease ! 
So many bullfrogs in the marshy meads 

Who croak the whole night through! So 

many geese 
Who gabble always! What this country 

needs 
Is one wise leader who will bring us peace. 



A Possible Explanation 

When God created Adam long ago, 

He made him in God's image, which must 

mean 
That Man was made a spirit and, I ween, 
Might walk and talk with God at sunset's 

glow. 

Earthy he was, too, of the dirt; and so 
A creature of the fields and hillsides green, 
As are the bear and deer; one who must 

glean 
For food and all brute needs and passions 

know. 

Now, sons of Adam, far from Eden, raise 
Their hands and eyes to Heav'n as they 

adore 
Their Maker. Loud they chant their songs 

in praise 

Of Him as they go off to work and war 
As ruthless as the beasts. Each hacks and 

slays. 
And then, returning, worships God once 

more. 



Youth AND Speed 

As in the past, youth must be served by 

speed. 
Though time is not one of their pressing 

cares, 
For many years of life may well be their's. 
Still must they drive as Jehu drove, nor 

heed 

The frightful risk to life the modern steed 
Subjects them to. The charioteer who 

dares 
The most upon the concrete thoroughfares 
Is rated first among them by this creed. 

Old men, whose time upon this earth is 

short, 
For whom the numbered days pass quickly 

by, 

These think it mad that anyone should 
court 

Death in such fashion. In their seasoned 

eye. 
Such breakneak recklessness is a fool's sport 
For all too soon there comes the time to die. 



Good Breeding and the Lack of It 

Is there today a maiden anywhere 
So fair in face and form as they who look 
Out of the pages of an old-time book, 
For whom the young swains did so greatly 
dare? 

Sweet, lovely Lorna, of the raven hair, 
To me seems perfect by her wild, Doone 

brook; 
And Catriona — The Balfour forsook. 
Of course, all others for a lass so fair. 

Such goodness, gentle, disciplined, is 

found 
But seldom, for upon our streets now swirl 
Excited groups and free, the uncouth sound 

Of the loud, banal laughter that the churl 
Did use; and license in hard lines is ground 
Deep in the features of the modern girl. 



The Rainbow 

In childhood, when the earth seemed 

clothed in rain, 
And I was forced, indoors, to keep me dry, 
I would grow weary and would sigh and 

cry 
To walk the open fields and hills again. 

Then might my Mother, pointing through 

the pane, 
Show me a rainbow building in the sky, 
And tell me of the pots of gold that lie 
At rainbow's end out on the grassy plain. 

How now, when skies are dark with the 

thick storm 
And life moves slowly on the sodden mould, 
Will Iris, laughing, show her lovely form 

And call me to her, as her wont of old. 
Out where the unobstructed sun shines 

warm 
And sparkles on the heaps of yellow gold? 



A Small Boy in a Duck Blind 

At dawn I crouched with wonder in a 

blind, 
A little boy for whom the stars were 

bright, 
And on the eastern skyline saw the light 
Of the new day just visible. The wind 

Came drifting o'er the marshland 

many-tined 
With cold, sharp barbs. Beyond my sight 
In the damp darkness, I could hear the 

flight 
Of great and lesser flocks of the duckkind. 

"Whee-whee-whee-whee-whee-whee", the 

duck wings said. 
Then came the deep, hoarse croak, the 

ghoulish cry. 
Of the night heron, flying overhead. 

Then other eerie sounds from passers by 
Unknown, unseen, wraiths of the marshland 

dread, 
Toward which I stared, low-crouched, 

with fearful eye. 



Two Children 

In the old, sun-drenched city, indolent 

By a tradition dear to everyone, 

Two children spent their summers having 

fun 
In simple ways. Each pleasant day they 

went 

Down to the shore and on the hot sand 

spent 
Their timeless mornings, swimming in 

the sun. 
Hearing the sound of crashing breakers 

run 
Along the beach, and therewith were 

content. 

How often at DiehPs fountain did they 

meet, 
After the sets of tennis all aglow. 
For a cold sundae, tantalizing, sweet, 

Delicious. (How can older people know 
How good it was to them!) Ah, Margaret; 
These children lived so very long ago! 



The Good Old Days 

Long, long ago, in the Old Spanish Days, 
When don and dona saw the warm hours 

pass 
So lazily, with no clock to harass 
Them in their cool adobes; when the frays 

In cloistered missions, where the sun's hot 

rays 
Were turned to brilliant shafts by the 

stained glass, 
In quiet reverance celebrated mass; 
When swart vaqueros watched the cattle 

graze — 

In what warm, cheerful colors now appears 
The long past scene! The never varied 

food, 
The long, drab days, the cruelties, the fears. 

The sicknesses so little understood, 

Have been forgotten in the passing years. 

And what is now recalled seems very good. 



Gone Is My Youth 

Where is the youth that once was surely 

mine, 
The easy, ready strength that took me far 
Across the Santa Ynez to Alamar 
And on to the Sierra timberline? 

Where is the youthful zest that let 

me dine 
On half cooked beans and trout by crag 

and scar, 
That made my blankets soft on gravelly bar 
And ledge, and pleasant in the cold 

starshine? 

Where is the wonder that I once possessed? 
Last night I needed desperately the brawn, 
The strength I took for granted, and the 
zest 

That held me spellbound as the flaming 

dawn 
Painted with splendor the high, granite 

crest, — 
I called upon them all — but they were 

gone. 



In Retrospect 

Much did I labor in my youth for gain 
In that good cause and this new enterprise 
Of promise, and I thought thereby to rise 
To greater usefulness, to a domain 

Of influence and power. Young hopes soon 

wane 
And early promises materialize 
So very slowly, if at all! Hope dies 
And, dying, cries that all such work is 

vain. 

Oh God, our Father, Who alone can 

know 
All that is purposed in the human heart. 
Grant me the wisdom to believe that 

though 

The whole was not achieved, some little 

part 
Has been for good, and it will live and 

grow 
And so fulfill the promise of its start. 



We Die with Our Friends 

As the years pass and one by one my friends 
Return to that far country whence they 

came, 
My life goes forward, seemingly the same 
As ever it has been: the deep hurt mends. 

Suns rise and set, each bitter season ends, 
I still am I, older, perhaps, and lame 
In outward form; but inwardly the flame 
Of life still burns and a good heat pretends. 

This much I know : each time an old friend 

dies 
A part of me dies with him, and I go 
With him to Sheol. Would that I were 

wise 

Enough, because of this descent, to know 
That part of him still looks out through 

my eyes. 
Speaks with my voice, and does whatever 

I do. 



Christmas 

When Winter gripped with its hard, icy- 
hand 

The Baltic world and nights both cold and 
long 

Grew ever longer, they who lived among 

The gloomy, northern firs and spruces 
planned 

A festival that day the sun would stand 
At its low point at noon. With muttered 

song 
And pray'r they held their rites before a 

strong 
And lusty sapling in that pagan land. 

Now Christian folk in every continent and 

clime 
About the world, wherever they may be, 
And though the fields and glades are white 

with rime 

Or green with grass, they trim the 

Christmas Tree 
With love. Ah, Christmas was a merry 

time. 
Hearth, home, and friends, and my own 

family! 



Fear in the Night 

When sickness comes in the black night 

and pain 
With fever high to one whom we hold 

dear, 
Then long the hours grow, great is the fear 
That grips our hearts. How anxiously 

again 

And yet again I search the sky in vain 
For some faint sign to tell that dawn is 

near. 
When the hope-giving sunlight will appear 
To drive off darkness and its evil train 

Of doubt, disease, and fear, and death and 

sin. 
Our children are so helpless as they lie 
In their white covers, carefully tucked in 

By prayerful hands! The thought that one 

might die 
So young is monstrous. Surely we will win 
This present fight with Earth's great 

Mystery! 



Home 

From the security that we have made 
For them our children go, young, confident 
In their resilient strength, and all intent 
On youth's absorbing problems. So we bade 

Our families farewell and unafraid 
Went forth together long ago. Consent 
We must now cheerfully as we invent 
New duties, lest we feel ourselves 
betrayed. 

Oh God, our Father; where-so-e'er are 

cast 
Our lots, however scattered we become. 
Keep in our hearts warm memories of the 

past 

And of each other. As we widely roam 
Or wilfully, curve Thou all paths at last 
So that, as dusk falls, they shall lead us 
Home. 



Natures Wages 



The wages Nature pays are not in gold 
Or silver for the idle hours spent 
In quiet vales and canyons redolent 
Of flowers and trees and running water 
cold 

And noisy, but are in another metal old 
As Eden, where at dusk the First Man 

went 
To walk with God by the magnificent 
Euphrates, deep and wide and uncontrolled. 

We wait in quietness upon the floor 
Of some still canyon. In the warm 

half-light 
Between the alders and the sycamore 

That canopy the stream we watch the Night 

Steal softly in upon us, and a door 

To Heaven opens as we pray for sight. 



The Migration of Birds 

When geese fly high and humble sparrows 

go 
From bush to bush across the continent, 
What force is it, what impulse, that has 

sent 
These travellers forth o'er land and sea, 

o'er snow 

And sand, toward distant goals they can 

not know, 
At best can sense but dimly, confident 
That journey's end will come ere strength 

is spent 
With rest and food and shelter there also? 

So fly the birds, stout-hearted, undeterred 
By threat of storm or distance, without sign 
Or chart to guide them, only deeply 
stirred 

By the Great Impulse. Would their faith 

were mine! 
Then need I never falter, for the Word 
Would guide me surely to the House 

Divine. 



The Chronometer of God 

The great clock strikes the moment and the 

chime, 
Although but faintly heard by urban man, 
The swallow deep in far off Yucatan 
Hears clear and changes course. In every 

clime 

The waterfowl and waders with sublime 
Concurrence, sandpipers and long necked 

swan, 
Ascend their spiral ways and in the van 
Drive hard to keep the rendezvous on time. 

Across the land runs the compelling word. 
Trees don new leaves, great rivers rise in 

flood. 
Warm breezes blow, and everywhere is 

heard 

The pulsing chorus sung by transient sod, 
Enduring rock, and flower and beast and 

bird 

All at the stroke of the Great Clock of 

God. 



Late Fall on the Marshes 

The fast-winged ducks across the heavens 

drive 
In wisps and skeins and undulating bands, 
The shrilling plovers swing across the 

sands 
And muds of beach and marsh and lift and 

dive 

In unison, the lobe-toed mudhens give 
To sloughs a voice, the lanky heron stands 
In the still waters of the reedy ponds 
So still it hardly seems to be alive! 

Although this is the last of the long year. 
Though leaves have fallen and though 

trees stand bare, 
Wild life is pulsing fast on marsh and mere, 

And strident voices everywhere declare 
Of far off, sunny shores and waters clear 
And high, romantic journeys through the 
air. 



The Path to Paradise 

There are town-tired folk who wish that 

they 
Might take some quiet trail that winds 

among 
The pine clad mountains, where the 

chorused song 
Of birds is heard at the first peep of day 

And flower masses point for them the way 
To Paradise. Ho, brothers; come along 
With me. I know of granite summits strong 
And high, and icy streams that plash and 
play. 

For I have trod this Path to Paradise, 
Which wanders through the dewy 

meadowgrass. 
Beneath the shade filled trees, by streams 

that rise 

In the high snows, and through the 

flower mass; 
Where fairy lanterns guide my tired eyes 
And tiny bells ring sweetly as I pass. 



Mountain Quail 

High on the tow'ring ridge the red flanked 

quail 
Glean leisurely beneath the chaparral 
That clothes as with a robe the mountain 

wall. 
Forward they go by tiny path and trail, 

One here, one there, one scratching in the 

shale 
Like any barnyard hen for seeds that fall 
From the brush canopy; while others call 
Their pleasant greetings, far across the 

vale. 

"Whou. Whou," they say. The soft yet 

clear sound floats 
On the still mountain air and fades away. 
I hear the calls but can not see the throats, 

The graceful plumes, or swelling breasts 

of gray. 
After a silence comes again the notes: 
'Whou. Whou." And then once more, 

'^whou, whou," they say. 



At the General Sherman Tree 

Crowning the rugged slopes, the huge 

trees lift 
Their massive heads in strength; and 

century 
By slowly passing century they see 
The seasons come and go, the snows pile 

drift 

On drift as white flakes, soft and noiseless, 

sift 
Down through the sprays; and then, how 

pleasantly. 
The warm sun shines to melt the snow and 

free 
The forests and the river waters swift. 

When Franklin searched the clouds for 

lightning, when 
John signed at Runnymede the Charter 

Great, 
When youthful Alexander led his men 

To the far Indus — at that early date 
This mighty tree stood in this western glen 
Youthful and tall and strong, immaculate. 



Sunset Rock 

We sat on Sunset Rock and saw the Day 
Fade slowly into Night, the darkness deep 
And formless up Kaweah Canyon creep. 
Beyond the tree-crowned ridge, far, far 
away, 

The unseen sun continued its display 
Of light; but round us on the hillside 

steep 
The creature world prepared itself for 

sleep 
In the tall trees and on the granite gray. 

Ah, sad, so very sad, it seemed to see 
That brave day pass for aye! A shadowy 

spell 
Lay on our hearts, and somewhat solemnly 

Our thought overleaped the present night 

to dwell 
On that time, inescapable, when we 
Also to this bright world should say 

farewell. 



The Poet's Inspiration 

Wordsworth and Keats, where do such men 

acquire 
Their golden competency, where the art 
That does to dull, dead, leaden words 

impart 
Life, charm, and motion, and a subtle fire 

To catch the soul and lift it high and higher 
Above the earthy cares that burn and 

smart 
Up to the birds who, with untroubled heart, 
Sing in the blue, atop the old church spire. 

I feel the ache that every sunset brings. 
When lengthening shadows climb the 

canyon wall ; 
When Evening comes on silvery, silent 

wings 

And small birds in the bushes flirt and call. 
There in the dusk, when all creation sings, 
I must stand mute. I can not sing at all. 



The Hills in Autumn 

Oh, I have climbed up from the canyon 

floor 
By a steep, breathless trail in the clear, 

still, 
Cold, autumn dawn. There was no 

wrentit's trill. 
No thrasher's song; but a great hawk did 

soar 

And swing up from the creek-bound 

sycamore 
Into the heavens, free and high o'er hill 
And dale. I heard its screaming, wild and 

shrill. 
Fierce as the heart of the bold preditor. 

And I have felt the fall breeze, moving 

cold 
And biting, flowing as a great air tide, 
Fing'ring the dry, brown leaves in cleft 

and fold, 
And whisp'ring urgently: "Hide, children; 

hide 
"Deep in the shelter of the fragrant mould. 
"Oh, hurry down from this high 

mountainside." 



The Beautiful Trees 

How lovely are the trees, which God hath 

made 
To grace their several stations. By the 

streams, 
In the deep canyons, the tall Alder dreams 
Of sunny days and reaches wide to shade 

The quiet, trouty pools; lithe Willows 

wade 
In the cold, running water. In the seams 
And on the shoulders, pine and redwood 

teams 
Climb high in grove and stately colonnade. 

And out upon the desert's arid face. 
Where drought and heat and cold go hand 

in hand. 
The Smoke Tree lifts, exquisite in its lace- 
Like foliage, the darling of that land. 
Each tree in its peculiar niche and place, 
As the all-wise Creator for them planned. 



A Still and Silent Sea 

Once have I swum in warm, pacific seas, 
When overhead the brilliant sky was blue 
And underneath the sea was saphire, too; 
And there was not the slightest breath or 
breeze 

To ripple the still surface. There at ease 
I swam and played, and neither cared nor 

knew 
What said the clock the carefree morning 

through. 
Sunshine, warm seas, and idle vagaries! 

Like some huge pond that stretched from 

east to west, 
No swell there was to roll in on the shore 
And, toppling forward all along its crest, 

To crash upon the sand with pounding roar. 
A strange contentment held the deep at rest. 
Silence there was the wide Pacific o'er. 



Half Asleep Among the Sand Dunes 

Oft have I lain upon the sunbaked sand 

After an hour's exhilerating fun 

In the rough, boisterous surf, and felt the 

sun 
Hot on my back and shoulder deeply tanned 

By hours of lying. The salt breeze has 
fanned 

My cheek as I have let my vagrant, half- 
thoughts run 

With vagrant wind and wave from horizon 

To far horizon on the curving strand. 

Oh, I have lain among the white sand 

dunes, 
So lazily, so drowsily, so free 
Of urban things, and heard the world-old 

runes 

Sung by the deep voiced waves 

monotonously; 
The rise and fall and rise of endless tunes 
Rhythmic with wisdom from the sleepy sea. 



TUMACACORI 

The church at Tumacacori now stands 
An empty, roofless shell. The heavy doors, 
Which held at bay through countless feuds 

and wars 
The savage furies of the Indian bands, 

Long since have given way; and greedy 

hands 
Have stripped the Mission of its sacred 

stores, 
Have even dug beneath the once cool floors 
For fabled treasure in these sterile sands. 

In spite of the unpardonable neglect, 

The wastage of each careless, vandal year, 

Still do the heavy walls and tower reflect 

The staunchness of the men who labored 

here 
To snatch brands from the burning and who 

recked 
Not cost. Brave men, devoted and sincere! 



The New Jerusalem 

Deep in a land, whose rocks are red as 

blood, 
A small stream runs between the walls 

that rise 
Sheer, bare, and bold to meet the sapphire 

skies. 
Here in an emerald grove of Cottonwood 

Once Brigham Young, the Mormon 

Leader, stood 
With his bold partisans. In awed surprise 
He named the canyon '^Zion", "Paradise", 
Where men might worship God in thankful 

mood. 

Though we who come so easily through 

drought 
And heat and barren wastes of rock and 

sand 
Can not but feel within us surging doubt 

Of it, the weary, travel-hardened band 
Cheered Brigham when he cried, with 

courage stout: 
*'This is the Place. This is the Promised 

Land." 



The Ptarmigan 

High on the mountaintop, where banks 

of snow 
Lie all year long, where on the talus slide 
The Conies cry their shrill alarms and hide 
Secure when cold, snow-laden, storm- 
winds blow, 

Too high by far for pine or spruce to grow, 
The Gentle White-tailed Ptarmigan 

reside 
In undisturbed contentment, well 

supplied 
With all those needs their simple natures 

know. 

We climbed the alpine steep to the last 

hill 
(whose rocky top was almost three miles 

high) 

One day in summer. Then the wind blew 
chill 

As ominous, black clouds obscured the 

sky; 
And there the Ptarmigan, unruffled, still, 
Watched our approach with unconcerned 

eye. 



Two Paths to Wealth 

Two paths to splendid wealth there are, 

it seems. 
The one that Croesus trod long years ago, 
Whose golden milestones cast so rich a glow 
That every page of history still gleams 

Auriforously. Since then, the base man's 

schemes 
Have been of wealth to equal to this; and 

no 
Slight chance has been too grim, no crime 

too low. 
If it but promised wealth to match their 

dreams. 

The second is that of the Ptarmigan, 
Whose wants are simple and whose needs 

are few: 
High mountain sides and tops from which 

to scan 

Sunrise and sunset gold, a lake or two 
To mirror the bright sky with partisan 
Delight, and pastures fresh with rain and 
dew. 



The Marmot and the Cony 

The mysteries of life are very great 
And quite beyond our powers to devise 
The answers. Marmots of impressive size, 
Fat, shaggy fellows, when the year grows 
late, 

Retreat into the dens they excavate. 
Deeply they sleep as high the snowdrifts 

rise 
Above their heads and moistures crystalize 
To ice around them. Thus they hibernate. 

The Cony, tiny yet stout hearted sprite 
Of the high rock slides, spends his sunlit 

day 
In preparation for the long, cold night. 

Hour after hour he cuts and cures his hay; 
And when the snowdrifts cover him up 

tight. 
Secure he feasts on stores he cut in May. 



Four Chambers of the Heart 

Four chambers are there in the good man's 

heart : 
A workshop where the laborer can lean 
Over his workbench and with interest keen, 
Sharp eye, and firm, sure hand perform 

his part, 

However sized, of this world's work. An 

Art 
Museum for the wonders he has seen 
And heard and read of, articles that mean 
Beauty and Joy, perhaps some Way or 

Chart 

Of Life from ancient Babylon, a gum 
From the old Nile used in a cult divine 
And fragrant still. A large gymnasium 

Where he may laugh, have fun in sport, and 

dine 
With boyhood friends who to his house 

have come. 
The Fourth is holy, for it walls a shrine. 



Paris Makes His Choice 

As Paris sate on Ida's sunny slopes 
And watched his wooUey flocks graze 

tranquilly 
The pungent herbs and grasses of that lea, 
He let his mind run with the fears and 

hopes 

That torment growing boys as each one 

gropes 
His way to manhood. Wished he to be 

free, 
Yet doubted ; might it not be best to be 
Secure though bound by strong parental 

ropes? 

Should he in time ascend his father's 

throne, 
Have wealth and pow'r, for which all 

princes strove? 
Should he seek Wisdom in some cell alone 

On some high hill, within some sacred 

grove? 
Or Love . . . The young man, raising, 

flung a stone 
Into the brook and went in quest of Love. 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper pr«»ss. 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Ox.de 
Treatment Date: , , , . , 'IQQQ 

■ E JUN WM 

* * "^ l 1 1 ' ' U^ira,<lT irvM TFCHNQLCKJIbS. LP. 



PRESERVATION TtCHNOLOGIES. 
1 1 1 TTiomson ParV Drive 
Cranberry Township. PA 16066 






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